Blood in the Water
by 221Bentley
Summary: When one of London's richest men and most esteemed historian is found slaughtered in his home while attempting to prevent the robbery of a solitary black arrow, Scotland Yard calls upon Holmes. In the early stages of this case, Sherlock and John find themselves in over their heads and are plunged into a world and a war they're not ready for. Smaug!lock


**Hello! I'm relatively new to writing fan fiction and this is my first attempt at writing a full length story. I'm not sure how well you'll except this idea of Smaug!lock into the Lord of the Rings world but I hope I can do this justice. Any and all feed back is completely welcome, especially constructive criticism. Read and enjoy!**

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**Present Day **

Sherlock was burning.

In the early hours of the morning, the consulting detective sat doubled over in his bed clutching the small, open wound on the palm of his hand, breathing hard, smoke rising from his lips with each contraction of his straining lungs. John Watson barged into the room, slamming the bedroom door against the wall and stared in shock at the scene before him.

"What the hell, Sherlock. What the actual hell?" He coughed as smoke filled the room and yanked the window open as Holmes groaned and writhed in pain among his sheets. John reached for his friend when Sherlock snapped at him. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" He slapped John's hand away and scrambled to the other side of the bed.  
"Dammit Sherlock , let me help you!"  
"NO! Get out! Go away!" Sherlock sat up suddenly and gasped, pain rendering him completely speechless. Arching his back, he tumbled off the bed, his legs getting tangled in the sheets. John dashed over to the far side of the room to help but stopped when he accidentally kicked a most peculiar object sticking out from under Sherlock's bed. He picked it up and examined it. It was the black arrow from the Morgon murder crime scene. The tip of the black point was stained with fresh blood; Sherlock's blood.  
The detective propped himself up on his forearms, hands clenched into fists and looked up at his friend. "Don't touch that!" He barked then collapsed flat onto his belly with a groan and clawed at the floor. "Why?"  
"Because it's poisoned you idiot! It did this to me!" Sherlock spat through his teeth. Suddenly, the muscles in his neck strained as tossed his head back and screamed. John threw the arrow on the bed and knelt beside his flat mate.  
"Bloody Hell!" John exclaimed as a closer examination showed that Sherlock's skin was boiling and turning a deep shade of red. He grabbed Sherlock's arm to haul him to his feet only to be snarled at, shoved away and sent tumbling across the room. John hit the far wall and was about to break into a fit of rage before he looked up and froze in horror at what he saw. Sherlock glared at him, his eyes no longer the brilliant supernova blue he was familiar with, instead they blazed gold and red, dancing like flames around narrowed pupils. The detective growled, long and low and guttural as he hauled himself to his feet and dashed for the door. John looked up at him and his jaw felt slack. As impossible as it seemed, Sherlock had grown undeniably taller and had to stoop down to get through the door frame.  
John scrambled to get his feet under him and ran into the living room after his flat mate. Sherlock seemed to stumble blindly through the kitchen, knocking several experiments and glass vials onto the floor as he made his way to the stairs. He dodged into the hall and collapsed as the pain intensified and rocked him to the core. He fell sideways and tumbled down the stairs to the landing, still scrambling to get to the front door. He needed the fire to go away, he needed air, desperately. Still breathing out hot smoke, he bolted for the ground floor with John close behind him. Sherlock nearly threw the front door off its hinges as he plunged into the cold night air and tore down Baker Street as fast as he could, trying to get away from John, away from everybody. He ran faster and faster until he felt as though he was flying.  
At 2 o'clock in the morning, there was hardly a soul in sight. Cat's perched on walls, drunks passed out on the streets and an old man stood leaning on a tall staff on the corner ahead. Sherlock saw an exit and took it. Flinging himself into a dark alley, he tried to out run the fire that wouldn't go way. Completely blinded by the flames within, he ran smack into a brick wall and bounced back, falling against a large recycle bin. Sherlock couldn't fight any longer and he collapsed completely. Tears streamed down his face as his very bones began to crack and change shape, stretching and out his muscles and tendons and ligaments. Every fiber, every feature of his being contorted as he clawed at his skin, at the walls and the frozen ground, his screams becoming animalistic roars of agony that echoed throughout the crisp London air.

John followed the anguished cries and flew down a maze of back alleys to find Sherlock. He rounded a corner and what he saw in the orange glow of the street lamps stopped him in his tracks for the second time that night. A trail of Sherlock's shredded pajamas and silk dressing gown lay scattered around a red and gold beast at the end of the alley. The beast turned its terribly beautiful head toward him. Two very sharp golden horns grew backwards from the crest in its head. Golden red eyes blazed above sharp cheekbones and the locks of curly dark hair that grew up over the crest of its powerful neck and flopped over its brow were undeniably familiar.  
"Sherlock?" He breathed. The dragon just blinked in response. John was frozen.  
Sherlock sighed. "Not good?" He said.

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**Fear not, all is soon to be explained in the next few chapters. Reviews are very much appreciated!**

- Ashley


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